


☥ Lately I been, I been losing sleep | Dreaming about the things that (I) could be

by rightsidethru



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post Episode Fic, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 19:30:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4577040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightsidethru/pseuds/rightsidethru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles makes a stand against the Void.</p>
            </blockquote>





	☥ Lately I been, I been losing sleep | Dreaming about the things that (I) could be

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this ages ago on my Stiles RP Tumblr. This comes after a certain episode (y'all know which one) and is no longer canon-compliant. I mostly wrote it back then because my Brat was buzzing with too much energy and a million thoughts.
> 
> Finally just getting around to posting this here. ;P

> _ A Divine Move is a truly inspired and original move; one that is non-obvious and which balances strategy and tactics to turn a losing game into a winning game. A Divine Move is singular — they are of such rarity that a full-time Go player might be lucky to play a single such move in their lifetime. The term comes from the Japanese  **神の一手** ( _Kami no Itte)_ , meaning “move of God” or “Godly move”. The Divine Move is used in Go teaching as a motivation to look again at positions in games and consider not just the obvious moves but the less obvious and more innovative as well, in particular tenuki. _

* * * * * * *

There was something ugly, empty, and gaping–a yawning maw of jagged teeth and open sores, oozing with infection and deadly in the fact that even the lightest touch promised nothing less than painful death to all who came near: this was the hollowness that settled within Stiles’ chest as he carefully made his way up the concrete steps from the shelter below ground, relying more on Lydia’s shoulder than either were willing to admit to; this was the ringing emptiness that spread outwards at that first sight of Scott holding Allison’s too-still body close in his arms, at the glimpse of Isaac looking down and away and guilt-stricken, and at the sudden appearance of Chris Argent, expression heartbroken and gray and sagging with the realization that he was all alone in this world and the single hope that he might have had for the future, his daughter, he would now have to place in the dirt.

The guilt came, sinking low and heavy in his belly, and shame soon followed when Stiles felt Lydia’s fingers tremble over his forearm, a choked-back sob slipping past her lips, and he opened his mouth to speak–what, he didn’t know. Perhaps “I’m sorry.” Or “Please forgive me.” Maybe even “I didn’t mean for this to happen.” No words came, however, tongue stilled: there was a knowledge, instinctive and quiet and thudding in rhythmic motion to where Stiles’ heart might have been once-upon-a-time-ago; this was not his grief, his mourning, his loss. The guilt, the shame, the blame he placed on himself: all would remain locked away within his own mind, words rattling ‘round, quick lashes purposefully meant to bring harm–punishment–for the death that happened today. But none of this would be spoken because these people… these people mattered, these people were allowed to mourn, deserved to grieve–this was about them, about Allison’s bravery and her sacrifice and his friends’ (his, too, though it felt a betrayal–didn’t deserve Allison’s friendship) loss.

Not the heavy burden of blame–not yet, at least.

“…come on, Lydia,” Stiles murmured and, hand gentle on her elbow, carefully began to lead the banshee towards her fallen friend. They moved slowly, what with the boy not at all steady on his feet and Lydia herself still in shock, though obviously knowing what to expect even before either had begun to head for the surface and the fight that had ended minutes before. Closer and closer, they made their way until both stood before the huddling group and Lydia finally just–collapsed to her knees, tears running down her face as she reached out with a milky-pale, shaking hand to wrap her fingers in Allison’s damp coat.

It was… painful to watch.

Even more so when Chris gathered his daughter in his arms, salt-and-pepper stubble pressing into the soft strands of Allison’s hair, and gently rocked the both of them back and forth. His lips settled upon her forehead, the gesture affectionate and loving and so familiar–and it came as a sudden punch to the stomach, the realization that he wouldn’t ever get to do this to his baby girl anymore, _never again_ ; she was _dead_ and he would have to bury her in the ground–and Stiles could see the way the older Hunter gathered Allison closer, arms going tighter, even as he whispered “You were the best of our family, sweetheart.  _Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes_ _._ Always. ” against her temple.

He could feel the silent tears tracking down his face, could feel each individual drop as it dripped from the edge of his jawline–sometimes landing on the back of Stiles’ hand, a forearm, the asphalt below. _I’m sorry_ , he thought, silent and aching and more than slightly ill with it as the teen followed after the group huddling in close to Chris as the Hunter eventually forced himself to stand and make his way back towards his black SUV with steady steps and a chin tilted high. And again, when everyone divided up–Scott and Isaac and Lydia unable to go more than a few steps away from the Hunter, fingertips still brushing over Allison’s blood-soaked clothes and skin already going ice-cold: _I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I never wanted her to die. I would give anything to take her place. To have not let another person be hurt–to die. I **liked** Allison. She was an amazing friend–and I’m so, so sorry_. _I’m so fucking sorry._

The sound of car doors shutting had Stiles flinching, arms coming up to wrap around his middle even as he pressed his hand against the wound in his side to dredge up the pain, make it _hurt_ , because this was the least of what he deserved.

“You did not go with them,” Noshiko Yukimura murmured quietly as she and Kira came up behind Stiles, their steps cat-quiet in the echoing press of night. And yet, despite the muted tone, there was a hard edge to the kitsune’s voice, a sense of condemnation and judgement that Stiles knew layered itself with the words: _You are damned and always shall be, for you are Nogitsune and Void_. “Why?”

“They deserve the chance to mourn,” Stiles told the woman honestly in an answer and not-answer (echoing the fox that had possessed him in a game of words and sidestepping neatly, and it was enough to make Mrs. Yukimura shiver with trepidation and foreshadowing), pressing his hand that much harder against his side until the teen could feel the fabric of his shirt become sticky and hot with blood. Fingers settled against the crook of his elbow, touch light, and the boy glanced up just enough for his tired gaze to meet Kira’s concerned one, face drawn and eyes tight as she watched Stiles hurt himself.

“And you?” Mrs. Yukimura continued, voice unrelenting, eyes as hard as her daughter’s were soft.

Stiles shrugged a shoulder, trying to make the motion flippant and unconcerned: he was too exhausted, too heart-sore, too empty and sick and filled with memories that were his and not-his, real and not-real–too filled up with _everything_ and _nothing_ to manage the typical defense of sarcasm and a ready quip that was always so quick upon his tongue. It wasn’t any of the woman’s business, anyway, why he hadn’t gone with the rest of his pack. Condemn him, kill him, forgive him, help him: his reasons were private, and there was no way that Stiles was willing to offer them up to a stranger–especially this one.

The teen remained closed-mouthed.

Expression going blank, Mrs. Yukimura said, “If you and the others hadn’t made sacrifices to the Nemeton–”

But the teen interrupted her before the kitsune could truly get very far. “And if you hadn’t summoned the Nogitsune in the first place, none of this would have ever happened; if you had truly realized what it was that you were inviting in to _play_ , then maybe you wouldn’t have made the appeal in the first place–and if you weren’t _still keeping secrets_ , even now, then maybe–”

“Come, Kira. It’s time to head home, and it’s time for another lesson with your father,” the woman cut-in, breaking Stiles off and reaching out to settle a firm hand on her daughter’s shoulder. Touch unrelenting, her guidance more a silent order than anything else, Mrs. Yukimura led Kira away–even with the girl constantly glancing over her shoulder to watch Stiles, catching at her lip worriedly.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise (but it did) when the boy received a text from her just a few minutes later. ’ _Need me to sneak out later on? I know that you’re not going to go home. And you shouldn’t be alone right now._ ’

The laugh that Stiles gave in answer was soft, as hoarse as a raven’s cry–and, as desperate as he was otherwise, Stiles could hear all of the choked-back tears, the broken sobs, that threaded through that broken sound. ’ _No. I’ll be okay_ ,’ he quickly typed back before tucking his phone away and instead leaning back against a rusted-out water tank to press the heels of his hands to his bruised eyes. It was a lie and such an obvious one–they both knew it–but there was nothing else that Stiles could do.

Nothing would ever be okay again, not really; the weight of Allison’s death would always rest upon Stiles’ shoulders–yet another one that he would have to carry, would have to learn not to stumble under (would have to learn to swallow the sick feeling of shame each and every time he looked in his friends’ directions)–but… separate (enough to matter, anyway), finally, in control of his own mind and body… perhaps Stiles could put a stop to all of this.

Maybe.

Somehow.

(No matter how the memories would linger.)

It was just–Stiles was so _tired_. Could still feel the connection, the tugging, the draw, the _bond_ between him and the Nogitsune. The red string of Fate that tied two individuals together, their very souls brushing, and all Stiles wanted to do was laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation that he now found himself in. And, before, there had been no point in mentioning it to the others, no matter the fact that Scott had known that something was still wrong and that Isaac had immediately called him out on his bullshit (because there wasn’t any point in deflecting with the blonde beta; Isaac knew the tricks thoroughly, used them often enough in his own effort to push attention away from him, particularly when the abuse from his father had been bad–and as often as Stiles was pissed at the other teenager, he couldn’t help but _like_ him, too).

“Well, it’s either this or homework,” the teen eventually murmured aloud to himself, pushing away from the half-rotted container to take a stumbling step forward; the comment, said to an audience of no one, was perhaps a last hat-tip to the 'wolf that Stiles typically squared off against, their interactions tense at best and antagonistic at worst (but fear and jealousy that he was being replaced in his best friend’s life could do that to a person, he supposed, mental voice now filled with nothing but dry amusement). Didn’t matter anymore. Not really.

He took one step forward. Then another.

A third.

The journey of a thousand miles always began with that first step: everything that followed was nothing more than the remaining aftermath. Stiles had taken his initial step, moved forward, dedicated himself to the path he was embarking towards; there was no looking back now, the boy knew. Didn’t think he wanted to, anyway, not after everything that had happened–the close calls that had brushed against Stiles’ skin, locked away within his own mind as the dark fox had allowed him to watch the havoc it wreaked upon the teenager’s hometown. The text and its hidden message Stiles had managed to get out to his father had been a lucky fluke. Scott’s survival with the katana had only come as a result of him being a werewolf (could still feel his best friend’s blood on his hands, hear Scott’s voice telling him _no_ ). And _Allison_ –Allison was gone, and the tears had not stopped (not once, not since the moment he came across the scene of Scott holding Allison close against his chest and trying so desperately to take her pain), but Stiles’ steps managed to steady just the slightest bit as he headed towards the entrance that led to the catacombs beneath Oak Creek.

Everyone else had left, including Mrs. Yukimura and Kira, but that was fine. Perhaps it was even better this way, in the end. (Lots of things were better this way, Stiles thought, and it hollowed the space just beneath his ribs even further–emptiness stretching and filled with the Void–but there was a cold comfort in that acknowledgement, as well. Something to keep close to the tattered remnants of his heart.)

With one hand out to steady himself against the perspiring concrete wall, Stiles once more began the descent down the stairway, this time knowing full well that he was heading further into the fox’s den.

But that was exactly where the amber-eyed teen wanted to go.

Movements shifting into a particularly established rhythm, step by step by step, Stiles allowed his bright eyes to fall half-lidded even as he quietly recited–only one stanza truly remembered word-for-word–to himself: “ _Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley’d & thunder’d; Storm’d at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred._”

Into the jaws of Death  
Into the mouth of Hell

***

Stiles knew these tunnels.

It was here that the Nogitsune had come to hide those first few days after the initial possession–when plans and tricks went tumbling through the creature’s mind, complexities and branched-out extremeties spread out before Stiles and the fox both, intricate and detailed, and despite the pain and havoc that he knew the Nogitsune was about to bleed into Beacon Hills’ very foundation, the teenage boy still couldn’t resist that single, momentary breathless appreciation: _It’s beautiful._ –before reality came crashing down and left Stiles gasping desperately for air.

There were older memories, too, ones that were edged with the smell of burnt flesh, the rasping of rough cotton too-loud against his eardrums, the peculiar, so specific–just faintly remembered–way that morphine sometimes made the tip of a person’s tongue tingle, opiates settling thick and heavy in joints and along the layers of fat in a body. Remembrances not his own, shaded in sepia and tinged in circular riddles: beloved and cursed both by a kitsune, opposites entwining until one bled into the other and, in the end, it all meant the same: Death.

(Lingering within the shadows of his mind, tucked away and barely perceptible, were older memories still, blurred and more dream-like than anything else; hazy and indistinct and threaded through with the constant _clack!_ of Go stones settling upon the  _Miyazaki kaya_ board, each piece connecting with one another to form artistically formatted plays that showed a hidden sort of genius that so few could truly come to appreciate.)

Deeper and deeper: the catacombs, the tunnels, falling back on one another, twisting and double-backing and inter-connecting into a labyrinthine mess where it would be all too easy to become irreparably lost; but Stiles _knew_ these tunnels with a knowledge that went beyond instinct and into a sense of Divine-edged foreshadowing.

It did not come as a surprise, then, when Stiles turned a corner and came face to face with a mirror image of his face: darker-edged and crueler, all of those hidden thoughts and feelings that he kept so carefully tucked away out on display for everyone and everyone to see–his doppelgänger, fox-gold eyes gleaming in malicious anticipation even as the bond connecting them both **_tugged_ ** so much more forcibly (dragging all of the air from Stiles’ lungs, leaving him breathless and uselessly gasping for _something_ to fill his chest).

“Your coming here just quickened the inevitable, Stiles,” the Nogitsune murmured, the corners of its lips quirking upwards in wicked amusement, curve slyly sharp, even as the spirit began to make its way towards the teenager, the other’s sneaker-clad feet ghost-silent upon the concrete of the tunnel’s floor. “Such a foolish thing to do, you know. Now, you’re usually so much _cleverer_ than that.”

Hand clutched tight over his frantically beating heart, still uselessly gasping for some sort of breath, Stiles shook his head roughly. “Knew–it wasn’t the smart thing to do. Didn’t… matter. Just had to stop you. Any… any way possible. Not gonna let you–hurt anyone else, you fucker.”

The Nogitsune’s expression shifted just then, twisting into something so much more unnatural: all bruised angles and oozing with rage and madness, the fox spirit bared teeth–canines just the slightest bit pointed–and began to stalk its way closer to the teenager boy until it was crowding into his personal space, words hissed menacingly against the delicate shel of Stiles’ ear. “ ** _You can’t kill me_**.”

Stiles turned his head suddenly just then, grinning ferally at the Nogitsune as his own eyes lit with a bloodthirstiness that he typically kept so carefully hidden and locked away, desperate to ensure that not even Scott would ever see just how deep the darkness within him ran. This time, however: the teen uncollared that choked-back aspect of himself and allowed it to finally explode free. “Wanna bet?” Stiles murmured back, whiskey gaze bright and manic and more than slightly crazed over the bruises that darkened the thin skin just beneath his eyes. “ _Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast._ ”

Jerking the fox forward by the collar of its shirt, Stiles slammed their mouths together roughly enough that he tasted blood, salt upon his tongue and surprisingly sweet–unexpectedly so–as the crimson liquid filled his mouth and coated his teeth. The dark spirit struggled against the boy’s hold, a low snarl rumbling against Stiles’ chapped lips, but it didn’t matter (nothing mattered, not really, not anymore): with with the fox skin-to-skin with him, the connection between them thrumming with power, taut as it surged, undulating sickeningly, as the Nogitsune drew more and more and _more_ upon Stiles’ Spark.

But the magic was the teen’s own, his belief and will and imagination all things that Stiles had hammered into unforgiving  _adamantium_ through private, desperate despair and loss and the driving need to hold onto the tattered remnants of the last of what truly mattered to him (family _family **family**_ ). So even as the spirit attempted to greedily draw Stiles’ power for itself, wanting nothing more than to suck the teen dry and to leave him an empty, drooling husk for the others to one day find (if they ever did), the amber-eyed boy dug in his heels and wrapped his mind tight 'round the connection between them both. Even as the Nogitsune drew upon Stiles’ Spark, Stiles pulled right back; back and forth, a tug-of-war that left the boy reeling and dizzy but refusing to back down–

Not when the losses had already come at such a price.  
Not when his friends, his pack, would once more be facing this creature.  
Not when Stiles would never again get to surprise Allison into a laugh, watch the pleased curl of her smile curve her mouth upwards–would never again get to fight at the Hunter’s side, never get to have the pleasure of seeing what she would mold the Argent family into under her own Code, never get to share a future with the potential that Allison had held within the palm of her hand. That the Nogitsune had cut short.

_Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent_ .

It wasn’t the Code that Allison had wanted the Argents to follow, but–in this instance, for this creature, the original was so much more fitting.

Stiles wrapped his mind around the bond that pulsed, thick and ugly between them both, and _pulled_ : constant, unrelenting, howling grief and the shattering lack of sanity and marrow-deep rage echoing within his bones (ringing ringing **ringing** ); he could _feel_ the Nogitsune struggle, realization dawning and horror striking fast and sure, but the teen no longer cared by then. Just wanted the spirit dead and buried and gone in whatever capacity he could make it happen.

He could feel the Nogitsune scream against his mouth–

And then the world went silent, shaded in graveyard-hues.

***

The Nogitsune sat opposite Stiles, settled casually on the other side of the _Goban_ ; cross-legged and still wearing the teen’s face–features more 'fae and pointed, fox-like and slyly clever even as the spirit watched the boy with half-lidded, golden eyes. Dressed in thick, decorated brocade and rough silk–blacks and browns and coppers and golds–in the traditional _kariginu_ of a Heian courtier, the spirit looked so much more ethereal: supernatural and distant and untouchable, so very, very different than how it appeared when dressed in the teen’s typical loose clothing, collar gaping wide and shirt hanging limply upon the lanky torso. **  
**

“Interesting,” the Nogitsune murmured softly, lashes lowering further to veil its gaze from the stark brightness of the huge, empty expanse of the hanger that Stiles had brought them to: returning both himself and the trickster spirit to the seemingly neverending room that Scott and Lydia had first found them both playing Go–and this, too, was a return to the scene that they had left from before when the Alpha had howled and Stiles had answered in turn, interrupting the game and temporarily breaking the possession.

But not completely.

Reaching out with pale fingers lightly tipped in too-sharp claws, the dark fox lifted the lid to the bowl containing its Go stones; lips pursing thoughtfully and head tilting just-so, the spirit stared down at the container that held the highly polished black pieces that it had not played in… quite some time. “…you put yourself at a disadvantage by playing white, Stiles,” the Nogitsune murmured softly, the curve of its smile sweetly chilling as it raised unnaturally bright eyes to meet the Spark’s own whiskey-hued gaze.

“I want to play _komi_ ,” Stiles answered, tone stiff even as he tilted his chin upwards challengingly: there was no give within the teenager, no willingness to back down–for now, it was all or nothing, everything placed upon the line with this single game; the knowledge of that, the realization, lit a malicious sort of glee within the fox’s eyes, cruelty brightening until the other’s expression was aflame with it.

(Checkmate.)

The teenager shifted upon the thin pillow beneath his thighs, bleached white  _hakama_ rubbing irritatingly against his already pale skin, and there was no need for a mirror to know just how much worse the bruises around his eye sockets looked beneath the harsh, unrelenting lighting and against the stark lack of coloring that his new clothing provided.

There was a formality, as well, that the Japanese garments added: a once-upon-a-time-ago element where white was worn to services for the dead (where houses were still covered in colorless sheets of paper to keep out impure spirits after a person had passed away within the home): and the teen knew that the Nogitsune had picked up on the symbolism when its expression darkened predatorily. “Ah, well. It’s your funeral, _Stiles_.”

“I like the _irony_.”

Laughter like the most luxurious of velvets, the Nogitsune filled the space between them with the heady sound before reaching into its bowl to retrieve a small back stone; claiming a square near its side of the _Goban_ , the spirit placed the game piece upon the fine-grained wood with a firm _clack!_ , fingers moving away in a graceful gesture even as Stiles quickly claimed his own spot with a much more disruptive _cla-aack!_.

Back and back, back and forth: a sort of give-and-take motion (more _take_ on the spirit’s end) where turns switched hands and stones were placed upon the wood and, slowly but surely, the game was built and territory was overtaken.

Stiles was losing.

There was a sloppiness to the teenager’s gameplay, an arrogance and casual disregard that threaded through each one of his decisions that had at first unsettled the Nogitsune but then, as time continued and Stiles’ choices continued to worsen, thrummed into a humming sense of satisfaction in the pit of the fox’s belly: it would be a simple enough thing to bury the boy deep, to win the game and overtake him mind, body, and magic–riding him until there was nothing left but the tattered remains of a broken soul… but here, too, there was an aspect of showmanship–craftsmanship–in twisting the Go play into circles until the boy knew neither left from right nor up from down.

It wasn’t much long after that the game barely managed to crawl into _yose_ , the final stages of longterm and high-stakes plays only now coming to fruition as certain moves connected and tricked and showed true brilliance as territory swung from one side of the board to the other. Even then, however, the Nogitsune knew that it had won: the differences in territory size was large enough that it would have won by default, that the Spark would soon be admitting defeat, the spirit would once more be fully in control of a (semi-)willing host–

Stiles placed down a white stone, game piece held so delicately between his fingertips that—this time—it made no sound, none at all, as he placed it upon the fine grained wood of the _Goban_. The teen allowed his touch to linger, just a moment or two longer, fingers surprisingly graceful as they finally lifted away from the bone-pale stone: shifting away and back to settle in the human’s lap, hands folded and so very, very still. It was that lack of movement that caught the fox’s attention; Stiles was normally a full range of motion, of movement—limbs never quite inert, no matter how hard the teen tried. Now, however… he watched the Nogitsune with a small smile and an amber gaze that _burned_.

The dark fox froze upon meeting that gaze, eyes flicking downwards to scan across the board: searching, perhaps, for the meaning behind that particular move and, upon finding it, the Nogitsune could do nothing to stop its gold eyes from going wide in shock–wide, wide, wider still until even its pupils blew impossibly large, the precious metal of the creature’s irises completely swallowed up by the blank void of the pit. And, even now and heartbeats later, the fox could not help but stare.

Sloppy move after lazy decision after pathetic tactics: the Nogitsune had assumed that it had finally crushed the boy’s spirit, that Stiles was only trying to keep up appearances for appearances’ sake; even with the Go game moving into _yose_ and the teenager not bowing his head in defeat… the spirit had believed it to be a matter of pride. Stubbornness. But no: each move, each assumption the Nogitsune had made, every snide comment it had thought, the bored indifference, and the rushed wish for the game to end… Stiles had used the creature’s intelligence and arrogance against it, twisting the match into the ultimate game of manipulation and perception and trickery and strategy.

Each and every move leading up to this one.

“ _Kami no Itte_ ,” the Nogitsune murmured softly, head cocking to the side as it allowed its gaze to travel along the board, playing the game backwards to observe each play with a whole new appreciation for the other’s sly intelligence. _With foxes we must play the fox_ , indeed. “The Divine Move. Very, _very_ well-done, Stiles. You managed to out-trick the Trickster. I yield.”

Stiles shook his head at that, movement slight and just barely perceived by the spirit sitting opposite the human boy. “…no. No. It’s too late for that now.”

There was no need to expand further on his words; the fox knew exactly what he meant by them. Upper lip curling in a derisive sneer, the Nogitsune stood in a single movement, motion supernatural and uncanny and yet breathlessly graceful despite all of that—and something within the teen yearned for that, _yearned_ for something similar for himself (hidden and tucked away, the lie that Peter Hale had acknowledged but had allowed to keep just between the both of them)—but then thought became difficult as the dark creature brought down the full force of all of the stolen power it had taken from Stiles.

No air to breathe, no words to think, no heart to beat, no soul to be: the Nogitsune willed Stiles out of existence, wishing nothing more than to snuff the boy out—the brilliance that had challenged it, that had managed to out-trick it, that had beaten it at its own game, here in this hidden, too-white room that the teen had prepared for the spirit’s “funeral.” Yes, _ironic_ , but only so much in that it would be the child whose life would be ended.

“Too late for that now? Truly? Is that what you honestly believe, Stiles? Or are you only trying your best to play the part of the _hero_ —here to save the day and doing such a _poor job_ of it, as well. So much better suited to be the goofy, quirky sidekick that never gets the girl or the disposable pawn: used by both sides and discarded when done. But you’re so used to being tossed away, aren’t you, Stiles? Didn’t you know, silly child? _Deru kugi wa utareru_.“

The nail that sticks out gets hammered down.

There was—something so infuriating about that particular proverb, something that rested heavy and ugly within the teen’s stomach. All his life, he’d been the nail that stuck out and, all his life, so many people attempted to hammer him down. Nobody had managed to do so yet, and perhaps it was petty stubbornness or rage-filled determination or a sense of purpose that had finally been found or maybe it was all—none—of these things—

But this was Stiles’ body, his mind, his heart, his soul, his _magic_. The Nogitsune had managed to take over once before, true enough, but it had needed the extra, unintentional help from Kira’s foxfire in order to do so; the spirit didn’t have that sort of help this time around—and, furthermore, Stiles wouldn’t _let_ it. Didn’t want it to. Was more than happy to tell the fox, “Fuck you and go to hell.” than roll over and show his belly. The teen hadn’t done it for any ‘wolf, any Alpha, any Darach—and sure as hell wouldn’t being _now_.

He began to push _back_.

“This isn’t heroic. What I’m going to do to you won’t be sung about in ballads or spoken of with any sort of pride. If anything, it’ll turn into a tale that mothers whisper to their children at night. That will make them fear the dark and everything hiding within it—‘cause I’ll be there in the shadows now, too. What Allison did? _That_ was heroic. That was a sacrifice. That was an act of love. That was something legendary, stories you hear about with true warriors. Me, though? I’m just doing what’s _necessary_. You should know that by now: I’m pragmatic that way.”

Clawing, tugging, yanking, drawing desperately at the bond that the fox had let remain between the both of them: didn’t matter what he did or how he did it, but Stiles grabbed hold of that connection with both hands and began to call his power back to him, greedily drinking it in like a body gone days without a drop of water, welcoming the flow of magic home. Brighter his Spark burned, flickering beneath the onslaught of magic, familiar and his own and depleted for so very, very long—and suddenly caught and roared and _burned_ to life. It was a wildfire, and Stiles was at the very heart of it.

Palm extending outward, fingers splayed wide, the fire coalesced and took shape and limed itself with the darkness that threaded and entwined with the teen’s heart: dark and light, night and day, entropy and creation, Stiles moulded both together in an impossible embrace that screeched in rage and pain and defiance and the relentless force of his will, filling the air with the mixed scents of ozone and ritually spilled blood—and held the leather-wrapped hilt of a heavy, ancient claymore between his two hands.

The sword was nowhere near as elegant a weapon as the katana that Noshiko and Kira wielded but, then again, it didn’t need to be. 

For the pain, strife, and chaos that the Nogitsune had caused, Stiles wanted nothing more than for the spirit to endure the same agony that it had made those around it suffer through. Stiles wanted it to _hurt._ Wanted the Nogitsune to realize just what it had awakened when it had decided to roost within the human it had considered to be nothing more than a pawn, a source of power: when it saw the darkness that had already been apart of the teen, hidden away and masked from the others for so many years and allowed to be taken off the leash for this one time—because Stiles was _never_ going to forget the sight of his best friend huddled over his first love as she died in his arms, as her blood soaked into his skin, as he sobbed quietly into her hair. And then, when Stiles was finally satisfied and bloated on the Nogitsune’s pain, the teen wanted the creature dead and buried and _ended_ , completely.

It was as if—

The fox caught sight of Stiles’ deepest wishes, all that he intended to happen stark and naked in his amber gaze, and madness twisted the Nogitsune’s expression even as unrelenting rage turned it ugly, golden eyes flaring with the last dregs of its own power. The too-white hanger wavered around them both, setting bending as reality blurred and shifted—became something else: Stiles’ bedroom, the living room at the McCalls’ house, the hospital room that his mom had died in, the skeletal remains of what used to be the Hale house, Derek’s loft, Lydia’s backyard, the public library, Beacon Hills’ police department. The high school.

Row after row of lockers trembled and rattled as the Nogitsune roared, the last bit of its human façade ripping away to reveal something truly nightmarish beneath.

“ _You can’t kill me!_ ” the Nogitsune screamed, the maw of its mouth gaping wide as it began to stalk towards Stiles with ground-eating strides: faster and faster, shape changing into something darker and monstrous and Void with every step forward it ran. “ ** _You can’t kill me!!_** ”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But I’m sure as hell gonna enjoy trying,” Stiles muttered in reply. His heart was racing, going a million miles a minute—and he could swear he could feel it attempt to escape his chest with each and every unsteady pulse: the terror was real, as was the clammy sweat that slowly trickled down his spine, drop by drop, but—

It didn’t matter. 

Didn’t matter if he lived. If he died. All that it came down to was whether or not he was able to take down the Nogitsune with him, keep it from hurting another person. Keep it from resting another death at his feet, from laying another heavy burden upon his shoulders for him to carry. All that mattered was to keep the people of Beacon Hills, the world—his dad, his friends, his pack—safe. He had already failed Allison in that. He couldn’t fail anyone else.

Let the memory of his friend’s warrior spirit guide him in the twist of his body as the Nogitsune collided with him, remembered posture and heft and stance (the blaze of triumph within her dark eyes when her arrows struck true), even as Stiles swung the claymore downwards in a stroke that was powered by the strength of his limbs, the force of his will, and the driving rage of his Spark.

The Nogitsune screamed.

***

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

In all honesty, Stiles hadn’t expected to wake up (in all honesty, didn’t know if he really wanted to)—let alone drift back to consciousness to the steady, if repetitively annoying, sound of a hospital’s heart monitor. Inhaling deeply and drawing in the all-too-familiar scents of sickness and antiseptics and the unappetizing mush the nurses tried to push off as ‘food,’ the teenager stirred slightly and tried to take stock of just how bad off he really was—

The pain immediately began to lessen, even as the fingers around his wrist and hand tightened to the point of nearly cutting off blood flow.

Not yet bothering to open his eyes, Stiles rolled his head towards the direction he knew Scott was sitting, fingers squeezing back as much as he could manage. Voice hoarse from lack of use and hydration both, Stiles still managed to whisper out, “Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City to take back the child that you have stolen. For my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom as great… _You have no power over me_.”

There was silence for several long, drawn-out moments—and then Scott was exploding in angry, snarling words that just barely managed to be coherent as concern and fury fought for dominance within the Alpha werewolf: “ _What the fuck, Stiles?!_ After everything—you’ve been here three weeks, and—so fucking worried!! We didn’t know what was going on or if you’d even wake up and—and—I thought I had lost my best friend, too, and—fuck you, you _asshole_ —you quote _Labyrinth_ at me?!”

Eyes finally opening to meet the dark gaze of a best friend that was openly crying, cheeks wet with tears (though also red with anger, as well), Stiles tightened his hold on Scott’s wrist and _yanked_ with surprising, unexpected strength for someone who had just awoken from nearly a month-long coma; arms wrapping around the other teen’s shoulders, fingers digging desperately into the meat of Scott’s back—this _this_ **this** packhomefamilybrotherheart: burying his face against the curve of his best friend’s throat, Stiles clung as hard as he could—terrified of Scott pulling away—but could not regret the feeling of satisfaction, of elation, at the knowledge that there would be no more losses to suffer through (this time, at least). Stiles had managed to keep them safe and protected and the Nogitsune would never again harm any of them.

“I’m _sorry_. I’m sorry, _I’m sorry_ , I’m so sorry, Scotty, I’m so, _so_ sorry, I’m sorry, fuck, **Scott** , _I’m so sorry_ …”

Stiles could feel a hand cup over the curve of his skull and, knowing that he was leaving bruises that would be healing within moments, anyway, only tightened his hold in reply: it was enough for right now.


End file.
